Weeks have passed under a strained and uneasy calm. In Volaire proper, the streets swell with desperate motion. Starving citizens wander aimlessly, hollow-eyed and hungry. Many are homeless, displaced from the smoldering remains of their villages. Soldiers—some bearing Ariad’s crest, others Foresetidale’s, and other’s still the Draconian’s- march along the cobblestones, doing what they can to maintain a semblance of order in a city teetering on the edge.
Though the capital breathes, it does so tensely. The peace holds—but only just.
Beyond the city walls, smaller towns continue to fall. The Fae strikes are slower now, more deliberate, creeping ever closer to the heart of Ariad. Yet a glimmer of hope lingers: their forces appear thinned, their ambitions narrowed. Whispers suggest their attention is fixed on one place—Dalefaer.
That cursed city, now silent behind an impenetrable magical barrier, remains the jewel the Fae refuse to relinquish. But questions plague the minds of many. How is the barrier maintained? What unnatural power sustains it? What lies behind it—an army preparing to strike again, or a city already lost, its people puppets of the Fae?
The silence offers no answers.
Then, on a crisp and brilliant morning, Ser Fallin Drakesong emerges from the Foresetidale embassy. A parchment scroll clenched in his gauntleted hand, he strides through the bustling streets, past guards and citizens alike, and enters the tavern.
Conversation falters.
All eyes turn.
He moves to the missive board, unrolls the scroll, and pins it to the wall with solemn precision. Then, turning to face the crowd, his voice rings out, firm and clear.
“Good morning. Many of you know me—I am Knightmaster and Seneschal Ser Fallin Drakesong of Foresetidale. And I call you to arms.”
A ripple runs through the tavern.
“In three days, I will unlock the portal housed within the embassy. Through it, we will march—into Dalefaer itself. We will flood the streets, strike down the Fae, and take back our home!”
He raises his fist, the glint of steel catching the morning light. Soldiers shift in their seats. Some rise. Murmurs stir like wind before a storm.
“Those who would stand with us, come to the embassy. Have your arms and armor inspected. Take your rations. Prepare yourselves. We retake our city—or we die trying.”
A heavy silence follows, broken only by the clink of metal and shallow breaths. Fallin surveys the room one final time, then nods and departs without another word.
The moment he’s gone, the tavern erupts. Some rush to read the posted missive. Others lean in close, voices low and urgent. Could this truly work? Could they breach the barrier? Could they reclaim Dalefaer?
Or was this nothing more than a fool’s charge—a final, desperate act by a man with nothing left to lose?
As the sun dips behind the distant hills, the debates still rage. Some rise from their drinks and make for the embassy. Others remain, scoffing into their cups, convinced the Knightmaster will be leading his men to their graves.
The missive reads:
To all citizens of Ariad,
The loss of Dalefaer and its people was a deep wound to Forsetidale—and to all who call Ariad home. But we will not let the Fae keep what is ours.
In three days, the portal within the embassy shall open, and we will strike. We will breach the barrier. We will take back our city.
All willing to join the effort may report to the embassy for inspection and provisioning. Rations will be provided, and when Dalefaer is ours again, those who fight shall be rewarded.
Stand with us. Fight with us. Reclaim our home.
Ser Fallin Drakesong
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